


Who's Threatening?

by PoorWendy



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, consent is all there IMO but not always explicitly communicated so, grain of salt, heed the tags, like praise kink lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: “I just can’t. I can’t shut up, around other people. I don’t.”“You really don’t,” Thor agrees, eyeing Peter up and down. Peter can feel his breath. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.” Thor licks his lips. “So what are we going to do about this?”





	Who's Threatening?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whobahstank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whobahstank/gifts).



> I tackled this previously un-tackled kink for [Jen](http://twitter.com/GonnaThorUp) ([whobahstank](http://whobahstank.tumblr.com)) whose art is SUPER HOT and continually fuels all the smut I can't stop writing for this ship. I 1000% recommend checking out their art because it's a TRUE GIFT. HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Peter talks a lot. He honestly can’t help it.

At least, that’s the way it feels. That’s what he tells himself, and what he tells others. “I can’t help it.” Because it feels true. His mouth just… It just _goes._

And it’s going now, while everybody else is resting. Everybody except Thor. And honestly, why _isn’t_ Thor resting? It’s been a long fucking day. Peter’s been awake for too long, and he’s yammering on to fill the space between the two of them. It would be a lot easier to relax if Thor would just go to sleep. Or away. Whichever.

But he doesn’t. It seems like he never does. He’s standing, just a few feet from Peter, on the bridge. And couldn’t he just _sit down?_ Like, even that would help. But the way he’s standing, always alert, scanning the view like there’s anything beyond the windows beyond stars, endless stars.

So if Peter can’t be alone, and he can’t sleep, well, he can’t shut up either.

“God, how long has it been now?” he asks aloud, though he’s hardly even talking to Thor. He’s just talking to hear himself talk. To hear something besides the hum of the engines. “It must be twenty hours since I slept,” he complains. “Rocket could have stayed awake and at the wheel but _no,”_ he complains some more, as if he didn’t volunteer to do it. Before he knew for sure that Thor would be staying awake and up here with him again.

And even after.

That’s the real nuts-and-bolts of it, isn’t it? That Peter wants to stay up with Thor, and he wants to be around him alone. But once he gets that, he doesn’t know what to do with it, because it never really amounts to what he _imagines._

His mind flashes over with scenes, blurred, scattered, flicking between one and the next like slides, like the ones they showed in school when he was a little kid. _Writhing. Pressing. Gripping. Panting._

And then _not panting._

So he fills the time and the space with the only thing he’s got, the only Earthly idea. Just running his mouth.

“Nevermind how long we’ve been off-planet for. Off- _whatever_ -planet. I mean, not that I mind. It’s what I’m used to. What we’re all used to. But, Jesus, sometimes after a fucking fight or _five_ it’s nice to put your feet on solid ground. Get a drink. Stretch out on an actual fucking bed.”

Thor makes a stupid, conceding grunt at that. But no more. It’s infuriating.

“You know. For those of us who sleep. Gods notwithstanding,” Peter goes on, trying his best to sound really indignant about it. It’s not particularly challenging. “Are you seriously just going to stand there? Like, all night?” Peter finally asks, annoyed with himself for addressing Thor directly, outright.

Thor nods, doesn’t turn to face Peter. There’s still something really irritated about it. “That was my plan,” he answers flatly.

Peter rolls his eyes. This is some kind of torture, surely. “Can’t you sit down? Don’t you get tired?” Thor doesn’t answer. “Of course not,” Peter answers himself. “You know, this whole _god_ routine is getting old quick. Big and strong and romance-novel-covery and, what, you don’t get tired? That’s part of your whole thing?”

Thor turns around, takes a step toward Peter. “Me?” he asks, and Peter’s taken aback at the actual response, one which could instigate an actual conversation. Some amount of discourse.

It’s more than a grunt is the point.

 _“Me?”_ Thor asks again. “Do _I_ ever get tired? Quill, do _you?”_ he asks.

“I—” Peter starts to answer, but Thor just goes on.

“Because you never seem to get tired of talking. And you never seem to complain about staying up alone until everybody else is asleep.”

Peter stands up. This is better, he decides, than talking to himself. Than thinking aloud. “Because I’m never alone,” he says. “You’re _always_ up here with me.”

“Is that some big problem?” Thor says, takes another step toward Peter. “Because I got here and everyone told me you were this big family, told me I was welcome—”

“Yeah, you _were_ welcome, but this is also _my_ ship, and I should be able to stay up—”

“Nobody’s stopping you,” Thor argues, cutting Peter off, taking yet another step closer. He’s close enough now that Peter could touch him if he wanted to. Well, if he let himself. “I have to imagine that if I weren’t up here, you wouldn’t be talking incessantly—”

“No,” Peter agrees quickly, “I probably wouldn’t! I’d prob—”

Thor grabs Peter by the front of his shirt, and Peter cuts himself off this time, figuring Thor’s going to say something. But Thor doesn’t. He just stares at him.

So Peter swallows, tries to keep the bite in his voice. Fails. “I’d probably just be sitting here listening to my Zune.”

“So do that,” Thor says, not letting go, getting a little closer, even. “And shut up.”

“I just,” Peter’s mouth runs on, “I just can’t. I can’t shut up, around other people. I don’t.”

“You really don’t,” Thor agrees, eyeing Peter up and down, and Peter can feel his breath, and _Jesus,_ he’s going to give himself away. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.” Thor licks his lips. “So what are we going to do about this?”

Peter’s breathing is more ragged than he wants it to be. He’s _definitely_ giving himself away. He thinks for a second about being obtuse, asking what Thor means. But Thor’s so close, and there’s that look in his eyes. Like he wants it too.

But Peter swallows again, tries to keep his voice steady as he asks, “You think you’re the first person to try to shut me up by threatening physical violence?”

Thor smirks. “Who’s threatening?”

“You—”

Thor keeps talking. “And no. I’m sure that mouth of yours has gotten your ass kicked before. And more than once.”

“So do it,” Peter spits, because yeah, that hits a little close to home. “Shut me up.” Thor opens his hand, lets go of Peter’s shirt, takes half a step back. Peter’s disappointed. Severely disappointed. But he pretends to be smug instead. “That’s what I thought,” he says, even though, no, no it wasn’t.

Thor looks at the floor, shakes his head, a dark smile still playing at his lips. Then he looks at Peter again and grabs him by the the throat. He puts his forehead against Peter’s temple, speaks with his lips against Peter’s jaw. “Stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

Peter widens his eyes, brings his hands up to Thor’s wrist, but he doesn’t fight him. He sucks in a thin, grating breath. Thor’s fingers are firm, his grip calculated, not actually cutting Peter’s air off entirely. Just testing him.

“There,” Thor says, and puts his mouth to Peter’s ear. “This is what it takes, isn’t it? Got to stop you breathing before I can stop you talking.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut. He nods.

“Well I can work with that,” Thor says, bites at Peter’s earlobe, then pushes him back a bit.

He loosens his grip on Peter’s neck enough that Peter can rasp, _“Fuck.”_

“Come on,” Thor says, licks his lips again, uses his other hand to press down on Peter’s shoulder. “On your knees.”

Peter lets Thor push him to his knees, gasps for air when Thor lets go of him to unfasten his own pants. Peter watches, entranced, as Thor pulls his cock out, gives himself a few strokes with one hand, grabs Peter’s hair with the other.

“You want this?” Thor asks, and Peter nods without looking up. “Hey,” Thor says, pulls tighter at Peter’s hair and tilts his head back so he’s got to look up. There’s something sober in Thor’s mismatched eyes. “Do you want this?” he asks again, slower. It’s different. Peter realizes this is Thor giving him a chance to back out, to set some boundaries.

He doesn’t want to.

“I want it,” Peter says. “I’ll let you know if gets too bad,” he adds softly, taps Thor on the hip a few times.

Thor nods, grins. “Open up,” he says, and the very second Peter does, Thor pushes into his mouth, into his _throat_ , with one forceful motion. _“Oh,”_ Thor moans, and the sound goes right to Peter’s head. “That’s better,” Thor mutters.

Peter wants to answer, but can only hum, mouth and throat stuffed with Thor’s cock.

Thor laughs. It’s low and rumbling and mixed with something like surrender, but it’s a laugh. “Who knew?” he sighs, pulls his hips back a bit, and Peter takes the opportunity to heave a deep breath through his nose. “Who knew it was this easy? Who knew _you_ were this easy?”

Peter furrows his brow, wants to be affronted, wants to protest, but Thor pushes deep inside again. And even if he hadn’t, Peter can’t, by all rights, protest. Because Thor’s right. Peter’s easy. Peter’s been wanting this, more or less, since the moment Thor boarded the Benatar.

Thor rakes his fingers through Peter’s hair, and it’s sweet, it’s gentle, especially compared with the way he’s thrusting his cock down Peter’s throat. “It’s alright,” he says, smug. “It’s alright to want it as badly as you do.”

Peter’s eyes start to water. His hands are at his sides but he’s dying to put them on Thor, so he dares to run them up over Thor’s hips. Thor lets him.

“Greedy,” Thor mutters, gripping Peter’s hair with one hand and his jaw with the other. _“Greedy_ is what you are.”

Peter wants to moan but he can’t even do that. He can’t even breathe. Thor’s pulling his head so that his nose is buried in the blonde curls at the base of his cock, and Peter’s letting him. Then he lets Thor hold his head still while he fucks his throat just as much as he pleases, and it’s obvious he doesn’t care at all about Peter’s comfort. Maybe he’s really got Peter pegged. Maybe he can really tell how much Peter’s getting off at being used. It seems that way.

“Fuck,” Thor mutters, and Peter’s never heard him say it, and his own cock’s pressing eagerly against the fabric of his pants now. _“Fuck,_ that’s good,” Thor says, digs his fingernails into Peter’s scalp. The sting is amazing. There’s little white spots in his vision and he nearly thinks about tapping Thor’s leg, but his cock is _throbbing,_ and the satisfied sounds Thor’s making are perfection, so he just gives into it. “Gonna come soon,” Thor grits out, jerks his hips even faster. “You ready?”

At this, Peter does protest, even though he wants to swallow Thor’s come, wants to watch his face as he empties down Peter’s throat. But he wants more than that. He wants Thor to fill his ass up, and he doesn’t know whether this will ever happen again, whether he’ll ever have a chance like this again. He hums out some vague, urgent, negative response around Thor’s cock, and Thor raises an eyebrow, pulls out far enough that Peter can gasp for air. Peter’s head is swimming, and his cock is so hard it hurts. “Don’t,” Peter begs frantically, the head of Thor’s cock still in his mouth. Thor pulls Peter’s head back by the hair again, forces his face upright.

 _“Why?”_ Thor demands.

Peter breathes heavily, oxygen rushing to his brain again. “Fuck me,” he says, and scrambles for the case beneath his seat, where he’s stashed, among other things, a bottle of lube. Because, yeah, he does more than sit and listen to his Zune when he’s up here alone. “Come in me.”

Thor makes a sound that’s frustrated and amused and dismissive. “I’m about to,” he says, and takes Peter’s face in both his hands, shoves his cock back into Peter’s mouth, and Peter lets out a disgusting, undignified noise as he swallows Thor down again. “Don’t— _ah_ —don’t worry,” he tells Peter, voice getting thinner and higher and giving away that he wants it just as badly as Peter does. “I’ll come in your throat,” he says, and Peter fucking shivers, can’t fucking breathe, doesn’t fucking _care,_ “and then I’ll come in your ass.”

The words coming out of his mouth are more than Peter was prepared to handle. They’re turning him on as much as the sex itself. He whines and it’s muted and garbled and _desperate_ and Thor groans low in his throat, pulls Peter’s face back and forth recklessly. “That’s good,” he chants, “that’s good, oh, you’re _good.”_

Tears stream down Peter’s cheeks as Thor grunts and thrusts and pushes so far into Peter’s throat it hurts. His vision spots again and Thor stills his hips, burying himself in Peter’s mouth, Peter’s lips flush against Thor’s body.

 _“Fuck,”_ Thor swears again, “that’s right.” He pets Peter’s hair roughly as his cock empties down Peter’s throat. Peter thinks he’s never tried so hard to obey anybody, feels Thor’s come dripping and pooling in his throat, swallows and swallows, still seeing stars. “Good boy,” Thor says, wiping a calloused thumb through the tears leaking from his eyes.

When he finally stops coming, he pulls out of Peter’s mouth, and Peter’s so overcome with the new rush of air that he doesn’t notice that Thor’s dropped down until he’s kneeling in front of him, pressing his mouth against Peter’s. It’s rough, it’s just as rough as everything else has been tonight, and Thor takes Peter’s lip in his teeth, bites down hard until Peter hisses, then rips his teeth away.

“Go ahead,” Thor grits out. “Get it,” he adds, and Peter looks up to see Thor nodding toward Peter’s seat. Peter doesn’t move at first, partly surprised that Thor seems to know exactly where he keeps his lube, partly overcome with the newly rediscovered ability to breathe. He finds the strength to raise an eyebrow. “I know what you must have been reaching for before,” Thor says, reaches around behind Peter, slides his hand down the back of Peter’s pants. “Get it. Unless you want me to fuck you without it.”

Peter shakes his head. He’s not _that_ much of a masochist. “No,” he ekes out, hoarse, and Thor seems to just _love_ that, “not without it.” Thor nods, pulls his hand out of Peter’s pants, and Peter reaches inside the case and roots around, finds the lube between a few dirty t-shirts and a few dirty magazines. He pulls the bottle out and Thor snatches it from his hand.

“Alright,” Thor says, drops the bottle on the floor beside him, grabs Peter by the hip, leans in close to his face. “Come here,” he mumbles, breath hot on Peter’s lips, brings his free hand between them to fumble with Peter’s belt. “Come here,” he says again, kisses Peter, gentler than before—relatively speaking. Maybe his pulse is slowing a little after the high of coming. But Peter hasn’t had that satisfaction yet, and he’s feeling particularly bratty.

He bites at Thor’s lip just as Thor gets his belt unbuckled, and Thor groans, tightens his hold on Peter’s hip. “Shit,” Peter says through clenched teeth, Thor’s bottom lip still caught between them. It sets Thor off, just like Peter wanted it to. Thor pulls at Peter’s fly so hard that the button pops off and drops, rattling, to the floor of the ship. “Take it easy,” Peter snaps, brings a hand up to Thor’s hair and tries to get a grip on it.

“Shut up,” Thor growls, and presses his mouth to Peter’s again, pushes his tongue inside, tries to muffle all the wanton sounds he’s making. Peter barely has the time to feel cocky about that. Thor pulls at Peter’s pants frantically, pulls them down over Peter’s ass, puts Peter on his back, finally stops kissing him. “Help me,” he says, nodding to one of Peter’s boots as he starts unbuckling the other, voice too strong and commanding for Peter to do anything but comply. Of course he would be able to sound authoritative even when asking for help.

Peter wrenches his ab muscles sitting up again to take his boot off, which he manages to do before Thor’s finished with the other one. Again, he’d feel cocky if his brain wasn’t so preoccupied with getting Thor inside him _right fucking now._

When Thor pulls his other boot off, he pushes Peter onto his back again, tugs Peter’s pants and his briefs violently down over his legs and throws them aside. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter registers the fact that he’s half naked on the floor of the bridge and that any one of the guardians could come up the stairs and happen upon them. Even more distantly, he registers how much that turns him on.

“Alright,” Thor says, maybe more to himself than to Peter, as he picks the lube up and opens it, squirts some onto his fingers, drops it again. Then he uses his unslicked hand to grab Peter behind the knee, pushes to spread his legs wide. Peter’s _wriggling_ on the floor under Thor’s gaze, and Thor just smirks, licks his lips, says, “God, look at you.”

“Come on,” Peter says, and there’s less venom in it than he’d like. His cock is _so_ hard, red—nearly purple—and leaking onto his t-shirt.

“What, Quill? What do you want?” Thor asks. He’s got Peter dangling from a string. “Ask me for it,” he says, presses Peter’s knee to his chest, and Peter watches as Thor admires the view, craning his neck and angling his head so he can see Peter’s hole.

 _“Fuck,”_ Peter whines. “Your fingers,” he starts, trying not to shout.

Thor squeezes Peter’s thigh. “I said ask for it,” he tells him. “Ask me nicely.”

“Please,” Peter says, knowing he must be blushing down to his chest by now. “Please, can you put your fingers in me?” he asks, voice wrecked.

Thor hums approvingly. “That’s good,” he tells Peter. “That’s very good.” Peter’s back arches when he feels two slick fingertips rubbing around his hole. “Yes, I’ll give you my fingers,” Thor says, and mercifully, he slips them inside.

 _“Oh,”_ Peter moans. “Oh my god.” It’s good. It’s a lot, but it’s so _good_ as Thor takes his time pushing his fingers all the way inside Peter. “Oh my _god.”_

Thor smirks, savors the sounds Peter’s making for a minute before he says, “You better find a way to quiet yourself down. Or I’ll have to.”

Peter bites down on his own bottom lip _hard,_ but it barely helps to muffle the sounds he’s making now, and Thor’s only picking up his pace and his effort.

“That mouth is trouble,” Thor says, presses farther into Peter, brushes against his prostate.

“Fuck,” Peter swears again. “Oh, Jesus.”

Thor shakes his head, edges forward, lets go of Peter’s knee. “You’re lucky it feels so sweet,” he says, and reaches up, presses his palm hard over Peter’s mouth. “That’s better.”

Peter groans against Thor’s hand, groans at the control Thor has over him, groans at the feel of Thor’s fingers twisting inside him.

“If you’re this loud with my fingers inside you,” Thor says, and Peter looks up, and he’s practically laughing, “can’t imagine what you’ll be like with my cock in you.”

Peter shuts his eyes, and his own poor cock bobs at the words coming out of Thor’s mouth. His voice is hushed and rough and low but the things it’s saying are just _killing_ Peter.

Peter’s swearing, he’s begging behind Thor’s hand, he’s saying _yes_ and _more_ and _fuck me,_ and even though none of it is audible, when he looks back up at Thor there’s this _glow_ in his eyes like he can hear every fucking word.

“You want me to fuck you, Quill?” he asks, low and throaty and just a bit too sweetly.

Peter nods and hums and tries to say _yes,_ and Thor reads him loud and clear.

“Okay,” Thor agrees, pulls his fingers out of Peter. “You stay quiet,” he tells him. “Stay quiet for me.”

Peter sighs one last time and nods again, and Thor lets go of his mouth. Peter watches as Thor reaches for Peter’s discarded pants, picks them up, wipes his hand on them. Peter might have a problem with that later, but right now he doesn’t care at all. “Please,” he whispers.

Thor nods, empties more lube into his hand, starts slicking up his cock. “Better,” he says. “Think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

Peter looks up at him helplessly. The answer is no. “I’ll try,” he says.

Thor stares down at him, eyes filled with feigned sympathy. “I know you will,” he says, runs a hand up Peter’s chest. “And when you fail,” he pauses, takes a breath, runs his hand up farther and places it on Peter’s throat, “I’ll figure something out.”

Peter swallows, blinks hard. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. He nods.

“Good boy,” Thor says again, and _fuck,_ Peter’s way, _way_ too into it. More precome leaks from his cock, the spot on his t-shirt growing bigger and wetter. Thor takes his hand off Peter’s throat, trails his fingertips down Peter’s belly, slips his hand up Peter’s shirt. “Very good.” He rubs a deceptively gentle thumb over Peter’s nipple before he pinches it until Peter hisses. Then he lets go of it, closes in on Peter, guides his legs up and open.

“Please,” Peter whispers again, pleading.

Thor nods, puts his finger to his lips. _“Shhh.”_ It’s barely audible. Peter nods as Thor spreads his thighs, leans forward, braces himself with one elbow beside Peter’s head, and rubs the slick head of his cock against Peter’s hole.

Peter’s desperate to comply. He breathes hard, so hard, just keeps on nodding. He’s doing such a good job until Thor actually breaches him.

 _“Shit,”_ Peter hisses, slams his fist down on the floor beside him.

Thor gives him a warning look, but Peter can tell he likes hearing it. And Peter can tell Thor likes feeling it, sliding inside of him, and the pain of stretching around Thor is worth it, for every little near-silent hum that escapes Thor, every little tensing of Thor’s muscles. It’s worth it for the feeling of being filled by him.

And as Thor fills him up, Peter can’t help the high, needy whine that escapes him, growing louder and louder. “Shut up,” Thor says, but his heart’s not in it. It’s not his biggest concern as he sinks deeper, deeper, and Peter’s still whining as Thor bottoms out. “God,” he gasps, and it’s soft. Momentarily helpless.

Peter’s sweating and whining and clutching at the back of Thor’s shirt. “Jesus,” he says, and he’s not being quiet, and he’s not even sure whether that’s on purpose or not. Part of him thinks he couldn’t quiet down if he tried. But a bigger part of him just knows he’s not trying because he wants Thor to shut him up, wants that strong hand back on his throat.

Thor stays buried, lets Peter adjust. “Quill,” he mutters, momentarily weak, breathing about as hard as Peter is, and Peter thinks it’s killing him to keep himself from starting to fuck into Peter yet. “You’ve got to— _ngh_ —got to shut up,” he says, but it sounds more like a plea than a command.

“No,” Peter spits. “Can’t,” he says.

Thor groans, reaches up, claps his hand over Peter’s mouth. He pulls his hips back, drills them forward. Peter sobs behind Thor’s hand, digs his fingernails into Thor’s shoulder. “You want it,” Thor grunts, thrusts into Peter again. “God, you _want_ it, don’t you?”

Peter hums, answers _yes, yes, yes_ underneath Thor’s hand, nods as much as Thor will let him, because he does, he wants it. Wants to be choked, wants to be fucked. Thor pushes into him again, and Peter sobs even louder, fresh tears running from his eyes.

Thor uncovers Peter’s mouth, and Peter gasps as Thor grabs his jaw, forces their mouths together roughly. Peter lets his mouth make all the sounds it wants to while it’s muffled by Thor’s lips. And, Jesus, does it want to make a lot of sounds when Thor builds up a pace, starts fucking him properly. And he can feel it more than he can hear it, but he knows Thor’s taking advantage, making his own sounds, grunting and keening right back into Peter’s mouth.

Then suddenly, he’s got a strong arm underneath Peter and lifts him up, getting to his feet. Peter flails a little, worries he’s going to fall, but Thor’s got a good hold on him, so Peter just wraps his legs around Thor’s waist, his arms around Thor’s neck, and lets Thor carry him out of the cockpit and over to the hard iron table, the same one they laid Thor on when they first picked him up.

Thor doesn’t take his mouth off Peter’s until Peter’s lying flat on his back, ass practically hanging off the end of the table as Thor stands and drills into him. As soon as he does, Peter cries out, and Thor doesn’t miss a beat, just reaches forward and wraps his hand around Peter’s throat.

“I told you,” Thor growls between ragged breaths. “I _told_ you, Quill.” He’s got one hand on Peter’s hip, the other squeezing Peter’s throat, harder than the first time, hard enough that Peter can’t suck in any air at all.

Thor bends a little at his knees, changes his angle to hammer against Peter’s prostate with every thrust. Peter’s cock is bouncing and leaking, his vision is mottled with glowing, white spots. He grabs hold of the table’s edge beside him, brings his other hand up to shadow over Thor’s.

“Good,” Thor mutters, low, unhinged, in time with the slamming of his hips. “Good, good, _good.”_ Peter tries to speak, tries to moan out of pure instinct, but he can’t. “Gonna come in you, Quill,” Thor tells him. “You know— _oh_ —you know what to do if,” Thor stutters, bucks his hips wildly against Peter’s, rhythm falling all out of place, “if you need—oh, _Quill.”_

Peter feels it, feels Thor’s come hot inside him, and his vision is too dark, and he grabs at the hand on his hip and drags it to his own cock. Thor doesn’t fight him, just wraps his hand around Peter. And Peter wants to wait, just a little longer, just feel Thor’s hand wrapped hot around him a _little longer._ But when Thor pulls out of Peter to finishing coming between his legs, Peter tries to gasp, and he _can’t,_ and he _has to._ He reaches up to his throat and taps frantically on Thor’s wrist, and Thor lets go, and air _rushes_ into Peter’s lungs. He gulps it down greedily, and as the flood of oxygen hits him, he comes hard over Thor’s hand, all up his chest, ruining his shirt.

He pants and gasps and comes for what feels like ages, his head swimming. “Fuck,” his wrecked throat rasps out, and Thor grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him roughly up to sitting.

“You alright?” he asks, and Peter blinks a few times, looks up, sees something like concern buried in Thor’s still-heated expression.

Peter nods.

Thor crushes his mouth against Peter’s again. “Good,” he says, then, rubs rough fingers through Peter’s hair, keeps him close. “Good.” He’s all muscles and strength and fire but when he brings his fingers down to Peter’s neck, his touch is light.

Peter can’t help but tilt his head back, bare his neck even more. Thor dips to drag his lips down the skin that’ll likely be bruising soon, down, down to Peter’s collarbone.

“See?” he whispers against Peter’s skin. “You can shut up.”

Peter smiles.

He swears he feels Thor smile against his skin as he says, “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”


End file.
